


Baby, Botticelli's Got Nothing on You

by roobsk



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Booker is done with this shit, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Former Priest Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani is an Incurable Romantic, Joe's painful attempts at flirting, M/M, Misunderstandings, Nicky's eyes, Some Humor, disaster joe, he's not usually a mess but Nicky makes him flail, i try my best, lonely nicky, shameful attempt at representating of british teachers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:14:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27044827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roobsk/pseuds/roobsk
Summary: There’s a guy with eyes like sea glass Joe see’s all the time. On the train, down the shops, sitting at a little table in Booker’s café. He must live nearby, otherwise, things are a hell of a lot creepier than he first imagined. Joe’s pretty sure lagoon eyes isn’t a stalker though, if only because when he sees him he doesn’t get the Creeps™. What Joe does get, which is ridiculous considering they’ve never even spoken, is a serious case of feelings. Of longing. Of, dare he say it, yearning?Because, and Joe says this with all the admiration ocean eyes’ beauty deserves. The man looks sad. Sad to the degree that Joe’s overreaching empathy (bleeding heart more like), makes him sad too. Because he has to know what, or who made this beautiful man with his eyes and his lips (plush) and his nose (the epitome of roman perfection) and his beauty mark (kissed into existence by Aphrodite herself), so sad.He needs to, he yearns to; he just doesn’t necessarily expect to so soon and in such a… face-first manner.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Nile Freeman, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 32
Kudos: 224





	1. Lattes are Bad Luck

**Author's Note:**

> In my quest to keep writing even when I'm struggling with my own stuff, I'm writing some fanfiction because I love this movie and these characters... also maybe if it write this it'll clear enough space in my head for my own stuff to get going again.
> 
> Joe comes across as a bit of a disaster in this, but it's Nicky's fault really. Him and his face.

There’s a guy with eyes like sea glass Joe see’s all the time. On the train, down the shops, sitting at a little table in Booker’s café. He must live nearby, otherwise, things are a hell of a lot creepier than he first imagined. Joe’s pretty sure lagoon eyes isn’t a stalker though, if only because when he sees him he doesn’t get the Creeps™. What Joe does get, which is ridiculous considering they’ve never even spoken, is a serious case of feelings. Of longing. Of, dare he say it, yearning? Like he’s in Persuasion or something. Except in this case, despite his aquatic eyes, Joe gets the distinct impression he’s Captain Wentworth and this mystery merman is Anne Elliott. Because, and Joe says this with all the admiration ocean eyes’ beauty deserves, the man looks sad. Sad to the degree that Joe’s overreaching empathy (bleeding heart more like), makes him sad too. Because he has to know what, or who made this beautiful man with his eyes and his lips (plush) and his nose (the epitome of roman perfection) and his beauty mark (kissed into existence by Aphrodite herself), so sad.

He needs to, he yearns to; he just doesn’t necessarily expect to so soon and in such a… face-first manner.

So it goes like this; Joe is at the café, waiting for his latte, clutching his Danish, so far so good. However, once said beverage is in hand he clocks the time and realises he’s nearly late to teach those delinquents he calls students to Make Art™, he spins swiftly and forcefully into someone. This someone goes down with a gasp, forest green sweater darker and, no doubt, now scalding from the fresh latte dumped all over it. At least his Danish is fine.

“I’m so sorry,” yes apologise, he needs to – wait. He looks down, its ocean eyes, of course it fucking is. It’s him and he’s just been scalded, sprawled on the floor apologising to Joe for… all of the above? Everyone is staring, so is he, he’s getting the distinct impression that if he doesn’t get a hold of himself and do something very soon he’s going to be the arsehole in this situation.

“You’re sorry?” Try harder, Joe. “No, I mean, I’m sorry. God, let me help you up, shit.” Ocean eyes hands are soft, a little smaller than Joe’s and fit just right in his own. His are a little bigger, a little darker and covered in pencil smudges from this morning’s doodles over breakfast – they feel better holding ocean eye’s slightly colder ones. “Are you ok?”

He ushers ocean eyes off to the side of the café, his hand resolutely not on the small of his back, though it’s trying its hardest to cross that mighty divide of an inch.

“Sí, yes. Thank you,” Allah, Joe thinks, his voice is so sweet. It’s soft and – _Focus Yusuf! Mama taught you manners._

Ocean eyes speaks again, “I’m so sorry, I’ll buy you another coffee.”

“What?”

“The one I made you spill, I can-” he whites out. He spilt coffee on ocean eyes, whose jumper now bares the evidence of it. The jumper touching the other man's skin. Latte + jumper x skin =

“Shit, your chest, are you in pain?” Ocean eyes is a little shorter than him, though probably not by as much as right now since he’s leaning forward awkwardly in an attempt to keep the fabric from his skin.

“I-”

“Joe, why are you causing chaos in my café?” Booker appears beside him, giving him that look, the one he usually saves for football matches when they’re on opposite sides (they’re always on opposite sides, it’s the principle of the thing). Booker’s bored gaze turns to ocean eyes, concern taking over. “Are you alright? Did my idiot of a friend run into you?”

“Yes-”

“It was my fault-” they say at once, ocean eyes shoulders hunching as he shrunk in on himself.

Joe frowned, “it was not your fault, at best we can share the blame. But only if you like.” He gave what he hoped was a disarming smile, though he may have been too eager with it.

Ocean eyes unfurled a little though, an uptick at the corner of his mouth the ghost of a smile, “that seems fair.”

Booker clears his throat, eyes flickering between the two of them with shrewdness. “Are you sure you aren’t hurt?”

“Oh,” ocean eyes fidgets, “it’s nothing.”

“Right, ok. Joe,” Booker says, “you’re wreaking havoc and you’re late to work. So get out of my café. You,” he pointed at ocean eyes. “You can stay, a free cappuccino and a spare shirt to make up for this moron.”

Ocean eyes blushed hard, shrinking once again and wringing his hands. “Please, it was my fault, don’t go to any trouble.”

“It’s alright, unfortunately, we live together so I can speak to him however I like – Joe for god’s sake go to work.”

_Fuck_ , he’d been standing staring like a fool. “Shit, yes, work – I’ll just-”

“Now Yusuf.”

“Uh, bye. Sorry again – bye.” He fumbled his way out of the café, flustered and embarrassed and just… the meet-cute he was hoping for ended up being a meet shambles. At least Qúynh would get a good laugh out of it.

If there was one good thing about being the head of art in an English state secondary school, it was having the power to pick who he taught. Yes, there was more paperwork and budget issues to contend with; yes, by the time parent complaints reached him they were truly, ferociously angry; but, and this was a big but, he didn’t have to teach key stage 3. If there was one thing Joe never wanted to deal with again, it was the appallingly terrifying attitude of a fourteen-year-old who really hated art. Joe only taught people who picked art, even if it was only as the lesser evil to drama or IT. Whatever the reason, Joe was lucky to be free enough to not have to work every period of the day. Nile, his newest teacher, however…

“If I have to hear one more adolescent laugh at the _Birth of Venus_ I will flip a table.” They were in their shared office between the classrooms, grasping to the relative peace of morning break.

Joe snorted, “just wait till you show the year eights the _Vitruvian Man_. ‘Uh, is that a dick sir?’” he said in his best south London accent.

“Remind me why I moved here again?” Nile asked.

“Because they wouldn’t let you show it at all in your old school?”

“Oh that’s right,” Nile nodded. “The good old American school system.” She looked down at his hand, squinting. “Who’s that?”

“Hm?” Joe looked to where he’d been sketching absentmindedly, where familiar eyes were looking up at him from the page. He groaned, “Just a beautiful victim of London’s rush hour.”

“Your sexy café guy again? What happened now?”

“Nile,” he whined, dropping his head forlornly to the desktop. “It was awful, I mortally wounded him.”

“You what?”

“I spilt my latte on him, and he was so sweet and apologised to me. _To me_ , Nile.”

“Ok, chill,” she said. Sliding into the chair opposite him. “What happened then?”

“I apologised and then he did and then Booker appeared and made me look like an even bigger idiot than I already did.”

“Booker is the grumpy Frenchman, right?”

“Grumpy French café owner, and my housemate who will probably ban me for a week. Which means no morning pastries for me which are the only things that make the mornings bearable. Plus less time with ocean eyes.”

“To clarify,” Nile leant back, a brow arched wryly. “By ‘time with’ you mean staring at. Let’s not get it twisted here.”

Joe stared at her, “I thought we were friends, Freeman.”

“Life is cruel, Al-Kaysani. Teens are crueller, I’m just getting myself into the mindset needed to deal with year nine.”

“That’s fair.” The shrill sound of the buzzer rang out, followed by the abrupt quieting of break time chatter as students and staff headed off to their next hour. “Fuck, I’ve got a meeting with Qúynh.”

“I’d say good luck Mr Al-Kaysani,” Nile replied, already slipping back into teacher mode. “But I’ve got to teach 9H about life drawing though, so I think it need it more than you.”

He couldn’t disagree.

There is a tradition among schools that the headteacher, though a fearsome force, is not as demonstrably terrifying as the deputy head. Joe’s school was no different, with the mild-mannered James Copley as head, and Qúynh Scythian as deputy, they made an ominously efficient team. Qúynh rarely shouted, but Joe had once heard her yelling at a class from the other side of the school, so Joe had a healthy respect for her patience. Outside of disciplining the inhabitants of the school, she and Joe were pretty good friends. He’d even been over to dinner semi-regularly and become close with her wife Andy ( _not_ Andromache if you know what’s good for you); who co-owned a photography studio with their other friend Lykon.

Qúynh was looking at him now, lips twitching as she fought, not very valiantly, not to burst out laughing. “So, what you’re telling me is that you were late because you spilt hot coffee all over the beautiful sad man you’ve been stalking.”

“Right; first of all, I’ve not been stalking him. I need that cleared up right now. Second, I don’t know if he is sad, he just always seems like he is. And third, I didn’t get coffee all over him, just on his jumper. Hopefully, it protected him enough; it looked like a chunky knit, the type hipsters wish they could pull off.”

“And then you ran away?”

“I apologised and was shooed away by Booker.”

“You left the poor man with Booker?”

“Sebastien actually seemed very concerned, it was a nice change from morose or hostile. Or hungover.”

“Did you at least get his name?”

“Shit, that was my chance, wasn’t it?” he groaned, cursing his earlier flailing, now he'd never learn ocean eyes name...

“Jesus, Yusuf.” Qúynh shook her head, sighing. “I’ve seen you flirt with anything that so much as looks at you, and this one depressed little poppet it what scares you?”

Joe bristled, “he does not scare me.”

She fixed him with a look that had him squirming, “then put your money where your mouth is. If I have to hear one more inebriated diatribe about the colour of his eyes-”

“They _are_ beautiful-”

“Not the point. What was that god-awful line you practised on Andy last weekend? ‘Baby, Botticelli’s got nothing on you’.”

“I did not say that,” he exclaimed, mind-boggling. “It doesn’t even make sense.”

“I know, me and Andy told you it didn’t.”

“Ok,” he threw up his hands, trying to maintain what little dignity he could in front of this woman. “Can we just get back to the budget, please?”

“Fine, fine,” Qúynh shrugged, nudging her computer back to life. “Arts money it is.”

“Thank you.” He really needed to stop hanging out with Andy and Qúynh.

At lunch he caved and called Booker, but in typical fashion, the other man didn’t answer. It didn’t matter though, Booker could hardly escape him when they shared a house. Nile had been too irritated by her class to bring up his morning calamity again, which was a small mercy. However a little while into teaching (more like sitting around waiting to be needed) his year twelves, Joe received a text from Andy.

_Axe Lady: You burned him??? Smooth operator._

Joe’s response was dignified.

_Mr Doodles: Fuck you Andromache._

At the tell-tale buzz of a reply, he shoved his phone away and focused on his students, one of whom was adamant she needed oil paint for her final piece; as if their department had the money for that shit.

By the time he got home his brain had finally decided it could operate without thinking about ocean eyes every thirty seconds, only for it to come screeching back when he found Booker sprawled out over the couch. “Bonne nuit, Booker.”

“You,” Booker pointed at Joe, looking bored. “Are banned henceforth.”

“Book please,” Joe scoffed, “that’s unsustainable. We literally live together.”

“Fine, but no Danishes for a week.”

“No!” Joe wailed, falling onto his friend dramatically. “I need the pastries to survive Sebastien, how else am I meant to make it through the day?” With a shove Joe landed in a heap on the floor, arms flailing.

Booker glared down at him, “let’s not pretend this is about pastry. Ask what you want to ask.”

Joe froze, sea glass and full lips, sandy hair brushing a sharp cheekbone. _Is he alright? What’s his favourite order? Does he seem sad to you too?_ But all he asked was “what’s his name?”

Booker rolled his eyes, “Nicky.”


	2. Football is not a Universal Language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicky comes round to watch the game - Joe fails at not watching Nicky.
> 
> Booker is not here for this nonsense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So just to clarify, when it's just Booker and Joe assume they're speaking french. Since Booker is french and I'm going with the Marwan-inspired Joe is Tunisian angle, that's their common language before English.  
> Also, Joe is still Muslim in this, but he does mention not being very devout in this chapter - hence the drinking etc.
> 
> Also, I had to bullshit my way through the minuscule amount of football talk in this. I literally had to google what teams play each other so... if it's nonsense then blame google.
> 
> Hope you guys like this chapter.

Booker invited Nicky round to watch the football. At their house. Nicky was going to be in their flat watching football. With him. Booker is an absolute fucker and the best friend Joe will ever have.

“He likes football?” Joe asked.

Booker only shrugged, “he’s Italian.” As if that statement made sense. As if it didn’t also make Joe’s head explode. Of course he’s fucking Italian fucking hell.

Which is why, too early on a Saturday morning, Joe found himself squinting down at the crisps in a Waitrose, trying desperately to figure out whether or not Italians liked prosecco flavour crisps. Does anyone like sodding prosecco flavoured crisps? This was never an issue back in Tunis.

Joe is also way too hungover for this ( _sorry Mama)_. Quynh and Andy had invited him over for dinner, ordered of course since neither of them could cook worth a damn. They then proceeded to undertake the usual teacher activity on a Friday night; drink and bemoan their jobs. Booker had rocked up with cake at one point, he was almost certain. There was also a fragmented conversation he couldn’t quite piece together, but it involved Nile somehow. Maybe Quynh was going to invite her to dinner next time… Anyway, it was only in the Uber home (at Andy’s insistence) that Booker casually mentioned inviting Ocean e – Nicky – round to watch the football.

All of which lead to his current potato-based conundrum. Maybe he should just get Doritos.

“If you put Skips in this basket I’m throwing it at you,” Booker grumbled from beside him. Because if hungover Joe had to suffer weekend shoppers, then so did hungover Booker.

“Skips are one of this country’s greatest inventions, you’re just a snob.”

“No, I’m not, I’m French.”

“Same thing.” Joe grabbed some fancy looking packs that were essentially salt and vinegar, then instantly put them back. _Think of the breath_ … salt and pepper was safer. Joe looked down at their sad little basket of snacks and sighed, “go grab something for dinner and I’ll get the drinks.”

“I-”

“No,” Joe glared at his friend. “You always buy too much and then drink it immediately because you have no will power.

“Yusuf.”

“Sebastien.”

Booker huffed, “fine. I will get dinner.”

“Thank you.”

Splitting up Joe headed to the alcohol section, grabbing his and Booker’s favourite beer (one of the few things they agreed on), before turning into the wine aisle. And smack bang into Nicky.

“Fuck-”

“Scusi-”

“Nicky?” Nicky blinked those eyes at him, white-knuckling a bottle of red as they stared at each other.

“Oh, it’s you-” Nicky blushed, Joe’s mind short-circuited. “I – I mean, hello again.”

“We need to stop running into each other like this,” _Wow, fucking A+ Joe_ , said inner-Andy. She needn’t have bothered; he was vastly ashamed of himself until… Nicky smiled. Small but definitely there. _Rejoice!_

“I suppose we do,” Nicky replied, rigid posture relaxing.

“So, Booker invited you over to watch the football?”

“Oh, ah, yes. I was just getting something to bring,” he gestured with the bottle in his hand. Joe peered at it; a merlot, French, he smiled wider. Nicky was playing it safe.

“That’s very sweet of you Nicky. Ah-”

“Yes?”

“I haven’t even introduced myself; you’re probably wondering how I even know what your name is – I’m not a stalker I swear. I mean, I’ve seen you around but…” all through his flailing Nicky was quiet, but he still had that little smile on his face.

Once Joe had stopped rambling the Italian spoke, “I just assumed Sebastien told you.”

 _Wow_ , Joe thought, he was not proving his common sense today. He really shouldn’t be in charge of shaping young minds. “Well, yes, he did. Let me – let me start again.” He took a deep breath, holding out his hand, “I’m Yusuf Al-Kaysani, but everyone calls me Joe.”

Nicky took his hand, grip soft but sure; Joe’s soul sighed. “I’m Nicky Genova.”

“As in the city? Are you from some sort of ancient powerful family?”

Nicky laughed, actually laughed at one of Joe’s poor jokes. He’d never be the same. “No, no; just a coincidence I think.”

“Shame, I was hoping to gain some influence with the Italian nobility.”

Nicky shrugged, “you’ll have to find another Italian for that I’m afraid. A more important one.”

“Nah,” Joe said, a sudden surge of his usual charisma prowling forward. “Think I’ll stick with this one, he’s pretty intriguing.”

The blush from before had nothing on the glorious pink that crept over Nicky’s face now, high on his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. Joe hadn’t felt the urge to paint in far too long, but that shade needed to be captured. Covetous as he was of it, maybe he’d keep it to himself for a while once he got to see it in person more, maybe see how far down it went…

“Joe?”

He blinked, _fuck_ , Nicky had been talking. “Sorry, uh, what were you saying?”

“I was just asking if this is alright?” he held up the bottle. “I just assumed you both drank, sorry.”

“We do; drink that is. Probably more than we should. Or at all, in my case,” he grimaced.

Nicky cocked his head, “you’re not meant to drink?”

“Religiously speaking, no. I’m not being a very good Muslim.”

“I’m not exactly a good catholic, so I can’t judge.”

“Hah, let’s just agree not to tell our mothers.” Nicky froze, eyes wide as that smile slipped away. Well, one step closer to figuring out where that sorrow came from. _Change course Joe, change course_. “French is usually a safe bet,” he said, far too loud.

“French?”

“The wine.”

“Oh, right, of course.” Nicky nodded, pulling the wine into his chest, sadness receding.

“Booker is French, so he’s biased.”

“What do you like?” Nicky asked, eyes quizzical.

Joe smirked, “I love a full-bodied Italian.” Oh, there was that colour again; beautiful.

Before Nicky got himself under control Booker’s grumble came from behind him. “Joe, how long does it take to pick up some drinks – oh, bonjour Nicky.” He stopped beside them, grinning. “Now I see why it took so long-”

“Booker, I was helping Nicky prick out some wine to bring to ours.”

“Wine?” Booker chuckled, “so Italian. Everyone else would bring beer to watch the football.”

“Says the Frenchman,” Joe rebutted. Nicky hadn’t said a word since his innuendo dropped between them, now he was worried he’d come on too strong. What if he found Joe repellent? What if he wasn’t interested in men? Or anyone? Oh fuck, he’d just sexually intimidated an asexual he barely knew.

“Why don’t you come back with me and Joe now? Save you finding your way there later.” _Wait, what?!_

“Uh, Booker, can I just-” Joe gestured further down the aisle, pulling a protesting Booker a few steps and switching into French. “He can’t come over now.”

“Why not?”

“The place is filthy, and I’m fairly sure I’ve still got the alcohol sweats. It's not good manners to bring him back to a messy house-”

“But talking about him in another language is the height of good breeding.”

Joe cleared his throat, “alright. Nicky,” he said, turning to the other man. They’d just have to kick everything into one of their rooms or under the sofa. “Do you have a snack of choice?”

Nicky smiled, a coy little thing; Joe was in love. “I like Skips.” He was definitely in love.

Booker groaned, “merde, there’s two of you.”

Booker scurried off ahead of them as they paid, which meant everything was clearly going to end up on Joe’s floor; the sly bastard. That being said, it did leave him alone again with Nicky.

“So,” Joe began after they’d fought their way through the self-checkout, “how’s your week been since the collision?” _Smooth Joe_ , his inner Nile remarked.

“The – oh,” Nicky huffed a small laugh. “Is it sad to say it was the highlight of my week?”

Joe’s heart soared, “colour me flattered. Assuming your life isn’t hideously boring.”

“You’re not far off the spot.” _Spot?_ He must have meant mark, Joe figured. As if that wasn’t cute as hell. _Get him to say more!_ Shut up, inner Quynh.

“What do you do then?”

“Um, I – I’m sort of in-between things right now.”

“Really?”

“Si; I left something very… intense and it’s taking me some time to…”

“Figure things out?” Joe supplied.

“Yes,” Nicky nodded solemnly; Joe could understand that. Figuring out he wasn’t going to be a world-famous artist and getting into teaching had been difficult, to put it lightly. It had felt a lot like giving in at the time, and many woe-is-me nights with Booker to realise teaching didn’t mean he had to stop making art – even if it drained him of all energy or inspiration a lot of the time. Although his new friend was certainly stirring some inspiration inside him… along with stirring a few other pieces of Joe. “What do you do?” Nicky asked.

“I’m a teacher, an art teacher,” he clarified.

“Wow, that’s important,” Nicky took a deep breath. “It must be nice, having a vocation like that.”

“Sometimes; sometimes it's tearing my hair out and boozy breakfasts but – it’s reassuring to have. In its own way.” _Oh no_ , Nicky looked sad again. Joe cleared his throat, “here we are,” he gestured to the Victorian terraced house in front of them.

“Oh,” Nicky said.

“What?”

“I live there.” He pointed three doors down, bemused. “I wouldn’t have gotten lost after all.”

Joe only had a mild heart attack, “you live at number 18?”

“18B, in the attic.”

“Well then, come on in neighbour.”

It didn’t take Joe long to figure out Nicky didn’t like football, or at least he wasn’t into it like they were. It was Paris-Saint-Germaine (Booker’s team) against Manchester United (Joe’s, if only because they were against Bookers); he spent a fun fifteen minutes tormenting his best friend. It was around the fourth missed opportunity from PSG that Joe noticed where Nicky's attention was. The man was listening to them both, eyes alight with laughter at their antics, giggling along quietly; but he barely looked at the television.

“Va te faire foutre!” Booker shouted, the little men running around as if they didn’t care about his opinion.

“I’d say it was shocking if I expected any better from PSG,” Joe said smugly, winking at Nicky as the other man smiled into his drink.

“How about I kick you out, you’d be a little more shocked then, non?”

Joe cackled, clutching a hand to his chest, “so sensitive Book, this is why Andy and Quynh won’t watch games with us.” He turned away from Booker’s scowl and found Nicky staring at him, flushed and so pretty Joe couldn’t believe it. “You alright there Nicky?”

Nick swallowed; Joe fought very hard not to watch his throat working. “Si, sto bene.”

“I think I understood that” he took a sip of his cold coffee. It was still early enough that they hadn’t started on the drinks yet, but if Nicky kept up with the shy smiles and blushing Joe might need some to get through the day. “Do you want anything to eat? Another drink?” A snort came from his left, “shut up Sebastien.”

“I can get it; would you like one?” Nicky offered, when Joe shook his head he wandered off to the kitchen.

As soon as he was out of sight Joe dug his elbow viciously into Booker’s side.

“Putain!”

“You’re making me look bad-”

“You’re making yourself look bad, Yusuf.”

“He doesn’t even like football.”

“And you’re basing this off what?”

Joe waved at the screen, “he’s barely been looking at the match.”

Booker shrugged, “he came along.”

“Yeah, he did.” Joe watched as Nicky re-emerged, setting down at the end of the sofa, a respectable distance between them. Joe was not a fan of the respectable distance when the person on one side looked like they needed a hug, and the other side was… him. A sudden, furious feeling bubbled up in his chest, and an especially important question came with it. _How long will it take to move across that respectable distance?_ “Nicky?”

“Yes, Joe.”

“Do you want to come to brunch tomorrow?”

“Brunch?” Nicky tilted his head, hair falling into his eyes – god Joe needed to paint him.

“We meet up with some friends on Sundays sometimes, they’re nice; mostly. Only if you’re free of course,” he added, his inner Booker yelling _reign it in, man._

“I don’t think I’ve ever had brunch before,” he said, a little stilted. A bit like he was chewing over the word to see how it tasted.

“What?” Booker said, bumbling into the conversation. “It’s 2020, everyone’s had brunch.”

“Book, that might be the most bourgeois thing you’ve ever said.”

“It’s my boujie ass that means we live in a whole house and not a shitty little flat.” Nicky winced; Booker was lucky Joe didn’t wrestle in company. The Frenchman carried on, “but you should come tomorrow Nicky, if only because you might enjoy it more than this.” He gestured at the screen; Nicky fumbled with his glass.

“I – I do like-”

“He’s teasing you, Nicky, aren’t you Booker.” At Joe’s teacher tone Booker mumbled an affirmative, focus fixed firmly back on the screen in front of them. “It’s ok that you don’t like football you know, its not a prerequisite to be friends with us.”

Nicky had a strange look on his face at that, a little shocked, a light dusting of pink once more gracing his pale cheeks. It must be hard to be that pale and hide your feelings. “So,” he stuttered, “are we…”

“Are we?” Joe pressed, inching closer.

“Um,” Nicky shook his head, pulling himself out of wherever he’d gone. “I, uh, yes. I’ll come to brunch tomorrow if you’re friends won’t mind me intruding.”

Joe felt like a balloon that had just been popped and he’d no idea why. “You wouldn't be intruding, and they put up with us two,” he nodded towards Booker. “They’ll love you, especially Quynh and Andy. They’re like the big sisters we never asked for, you’ll be adopted in a heartbeat.”

“If Joe shares-”

“Go back to watching your team fail, Sebastien,” Joe snapped.

Nicky nodded, sinking into the corner of the sofa with a sad smile. The rest of the day went well enough, but Joe could get Nicky’s almost question out of his head. _Are we…_ are we what?


	3. A Croissant is not just a Croissant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brunch is had, things are found out, and Joe may or may not be total chickenshit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies this took longer than I had anticipated, but real life, know what I'm saying.
> 
> I had to take (and fail) my driving test so this got put on the back burner. Now that's over for the time being so this takes front and centre. I'm hoping to get the next chapter out sharpish as I'm tackling my own stuff for NaNoWriMo... or my own version of NaNoWriMo which I'm using to set myself deadlines. Apparently i don't finish things without one looming.

Joe stayed up till two in the morning sketching; hands, features, eyes… a lot of eyes. By the time he’d finally gotten close enough to the oceanic shade he adored, he was starting to creep himself out. Joe still didn’t know whether Nicky would even be interested in him, and here he was drawing into the small hours. Yes, he’d made Nicky blush (be still his beating heart), but other than reacting to Joe’s flirting he hadn’t exactly… reciprocated. He could just be shy, or introverted, he certainly seemed so; but they’d hardly spent much time together.

Brunch would help him figure it out; help him figure Nicky out. Nicky Genova with the ocean eyes and the soft voice; Nicky who blushed easy and tried not to impose. Nicky.

If Joe spent a little longer figuring out what to wear that Sunday morning, then it was just because he liked brunch. That was all. He wasn’t trying to make up for his shambolic hung-over appearance yesterday. No. Nope. Not at all, stop laughing inner Andy.

Emerging from his bedroom wearing his good jeans and the Henley that showed off his arms, Joe could admit to feeling good. He was usually a pretty confident guy, a bit of an extrovert – charismatic, Quynh had said when she was feeling kind. So, yes, he was feeling pretty damn good about himself when he moved to slip his boots on. Of course, that couldn’t stand.

“I don’t think he bones on the first brunch.”

“Booker,” Joe sighed, casting his best disappointed-in-you teacher face at his housemate. “Not all of us want to fuck and run.”

“All of us, no. You, however-”

“I’m not trying to fuck and fuck off Nicky.”

“I know, you wouldn’t embarrass yourself so much if you did.”

Joe spluttered, “I have not been embarrassing myself.”

“Ok Yusuf, you tell yourself whatever you need to,” Booker replied, looking at Joe like you would a child who didn’t realise they couldn’t spell.

“Do not look at me like that Sebastien.”

“Fine,” Booker patted him on the arm as they headed out.

Joe stumbled after him, pulling on his jacket as he went. Fuck that asshole for ruining his vibe, he was still going to figure out Nicky today. Booker and his stupid face be damned. They stopped in front of number eighteen, Joe squared his shoulders and walked up to the buzzer. Pressing the button for 18B he waited, willing the rattling in his chest to go down.

“Ciao?” Even through the shitty little speaker, Nicky’s voice brought a smile to his face. _Do not look at Booker._

“Hi Nicky, it's us. Ready to go?”

“Yes, I’ll be down in a moment.”

A strand of Nicky’s hair was twisted around the little silver hoop in his left ear. There was something so sexy about his ear piercings, even if they were just simple hoops in both lobes. Back when Joe had noticed them the first time, he’d gotten the notion in his head that it might make the Italian’s ears sensitive; that tugging gently on them with his teeth would make Nicky shiver. Now that Joe had heard him speak, he couldn’t help but imagine the little huffs of breath and moans he could ring out of the bashful man with teeth and tongue –

 _Stop perving Yusuf!_ Inner Nile was right, perving had to be earned. And, looking at the way Nicky’s jeans hugged his magnificent thighs, and how soft he looked in his crimson jumper, Joe intended to earn it.

He smiled, “hello Nicky.”

“Buongiorno, Joe. Booker.”

“Ready to break your brunch virginity?”

Behind him, Booker mumbled “Jesus Christ.”

Nicky either didn’t hear him or chose not to, huffing out a laugh, “ready and willing.”

“Oh,” Joe crooned, “famous last words.”

It was perhaps foolish of Joe to think Andy and Quynh would be kinder based on Nicky’s retiring nature. Foolish, because they absolutely were kinder… to Nicky.

“I’m so sorry Joe maimed you, we need to stop letting him out in public,” Quynh said with a pleased grin.

“Maybe we should get him a bell for when he’s out,” Andy added, bellini in hand. “Warn people he’s coming.”

Nicky, bless the little traitor, bit down on a smile. “It was really my fault; Joe was looking the other way.”

Quynh cooed, “you’re sweet, don’t give him an inch.” She gestured her knife at Joe, “Booker never does.”

“It’s how we've managed to live together so long,” Booker added before taking a hefty bite of his eggs.

“Could you all shit on me a little less? I don’t want Nicky thinking I’m some sort of-”

“Human disaster,” Quynh supplied.

Joe was ready to throw down, boss or no, but Nicky sent him a smile that turned his bones to sparkles. “Don’t worry Joe,” Nicky faux whispered. “You can’t be a bigger disaster than me.”

“Ooh,” Quynh said gleefully. “That sounds like tea to me.”

Nicky frowned, “tea? Do you want-”

“She wants gossip, Nicky,” Andy said, not unkindly. “My dearest wife wants to crack you open and rifle through your secrets.”

Nicky went a little pale at that, taking a trembling sip of his coffee. Joe shot his boss a filthy look, “leave him be. You have to reach at least level six friendship before you unlock someone’s backstory, you know that.” He put a comforting hand on Nicky’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “I’ll protect you from the scary lady.”

“I bet you will,” Booker said into his glass, but judging on his startled look, Nicky had heard him perfectly fine.

“I – uhm – I’m just…” Nicky pointed to the bathroom sign, giving them a tremulous, strained approximation of a smile as he went.

Joe turned on Booker immediately, “well done asshole.”

"What?” Booker replied, incredulous.

“You’re making him uncomfortable-”

“I’m not the one flirting with him constantly.”

“I’m-”

“Joe, Joe, Joe,” Andy tutted, looking put upon but real fucking pleased. This wasn’t good.

“What Andy?”

“You’ve wanted this sweet-tempered, pretty Italian for how long?”

He cleared his throat, scrabbling for some dignity. “A while.”

“Then why didn’t you ask him on a proper date rather than this-”

“Antiquated courting ritual with chaperones,” Quynh supplied.

“That’s it, thank you Q. Why have we gone back in time?”

“I didn’t want to come on too strong.”

“Stronger than dumping a cappuccino on him?”

“It was a latte, Booker,” Joe re-joined, feeling very put upon. Honestly, he came out to have brunch and he was feeling very attacked right now. “I’m just not sure if he’s interested.”

“In you?” Quynh asked.

“In men,” he replied.

“Oh,” Andy said. “Easily deciphered.” Joe didn’t like the sound of that.

“You seeing anyone Nicky?” No sooner had the other man sat down than Andy had attacked. Joe steadfastly kept his mouth shut, desperate to know but unwilling to make Nicky uncomfortable.

“Sorry?” Nicky said.

“Are you seeing anyone, relationship-wise?”

The flush was back, lord help them all. Nicky kept his eyes on his drink as he responded, “no, no. No one.”

“Are you on the lookout?” Quynh asked, eyes twinkling. “We know some single people.”

“What are you into?” Andy followed up. Joe waited with bated breath, bless those lesbians and their lack of social boundaries.

“I – um, I am gay,” Nicky stammered out.

Outwardly Joe was sure he looked normal, nodding a little, offering a comforting smile. Inside… Joe was doing backflips and singing (terribly, he was not a musical soul) and promising Allah to drink less. Joe and Nicky were now one step closer to becoming Joe-and-Nicky, the sickeningly sweet couple that stared into each other’s eyes and had no shame whatsoever.

As the others chatted Joe took stock; Nicky was gay and single, he blushed when Joe flirted with him, which wasn’t a return but also wasn’t an outright no. Nicky was friendly, a little shy and, at the moment, unemployed and therefore free a lot. Joe was going to ask him out – tonight. He was going to gather his courage and do it before someone else swooped in and –

“I’ve got a single friend you might like, he’s-”

“A jerk,” Joe interrupted.

Quynh blinked at him, mirth tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You don’t even know who I was talking about, Joe.”

“I know all your single friends are jerks.”

Quynh grinned, shark-like, “and do you inc-”

“Leave the poor man alone,” Booker cut in, looking content and full and like he’d much rather be home napping.

Joe caught the grateful look on Nicky’s face, from her sudden shift to discussing work Quynh must have as well.

“You’ve got lovely eyes, Nicky,” Andy said. His inner Booker screamed _danger!_

Andy didn’t say anything further in that vein, only offered Nicky the last croissant and smiled in that knowing way of hers. Joe knew something was coming, maybe not now, but there would be a follow up; Andromache never gave out compliments for nothing.

“What do you do Nicky?” Quynh asked. Nicky had enquired about everyone else by that point, so Joe felt comfortable with the others digging a little more than he already had. Finding these little morsels of information about Nicky was getting addictive, Joe just wanted to dig, dig, dig.

“I’m looking for work at the moment. There wasn’t much for me in Genova, so I moved.” That… didn’t sound like the whole truth, though he couldn’t say why. It just – it sounded like half a sentence. A heavily edited story.

"Well,” Andy said, “what did you do back in Genova?”

Nicky did that little huff laugh Joe was beginning to grow so fond of, taking a sip of coffee before short-circuiting Joe’s brain. “I was a priest.”

The bite of hash brown halfway to his mouth was mocking him. _You want to bone a priest? Perv!_ Stupid carbs.

“I was not expecting you to say that,” Booker said, smirking. “I see what you meant about leaving something intense now.”

Andy, with obvious and clear kindness, did not ask why he left. “What are you looking to do now?”

Nicky shrugged, “whatever will take me. I’m not qualified for much so…”

“Of course you are,” Joe said, finally reconnecting his brain and mouth. “People skills and communication are important in most roles nowadays, which you have plenty of. That more than makes up for not knowing how to work excel.”

“Thank you Mr job spec,” Booker scoffed.

“All I’m saying,” Joe replied, giving his friend a shove, “is that you’ve got plenty that people want – um – an employer would want.”

Nicky locked eyes with him, and Joe felt like he was in one of those perfume adverts where people emerged from the waves all chiselled and dripping – ugh, now he wanted to take Nicky to the beach. Said man smiled, “thank you, Joe.”

His phone was mocking him, tormenting him, judging him. _You won’t do it_ , it said, _you’re not brave enough_. Well, phone, he thought, not only are you inanimate, but your also wrong. Steeling his reserve Joe clicked on Nicky’s number, the one the other man had given him earlier for ‘if you need anything.’ As it rang Joe looked around his room, at the dirty pile of clothes on the chair, the books scattered about and the mugs he really needed to –

" _Pronto.”_

“Nicky?”

_"Yes?”_

“It’s Joe.”

Nicky chuckled, _“I know, I’ve got your number saved, remember?”_

“Shit, sorry, I did know that” Joe fumbled. Come on, turn on the charm Al-Kaysani. “How’s you’re evening going?”

_“Ok, I am watching Autumnwatch. It’s nice how much British people love nature. I like all the animals.”_

“Really?” Information processed, maybe Joe could take him to the aquarium or something.

_“Have you watched it?”_

“I haven’t, but uh, my friend Lykon does. There’s a spring and winter one too.”

 _“Ooh,”_ the delight in Nicky’s voice was adorable. “ _I’ll have to catch them. The stags are my favourite, they-”_ he cut himself off.

Joe frowned, “what?”

_“Nothing, it, uh – it’s nothing.”_

“Ok,” that was untrue, but Joe could follow up on it later. “I was wondering, are you free Tuesday night?”

_“I’m always free Joe, why?”_

“I was hoping…” oh god, his heart was going to burst out of his chest. _Just ask Joe. Just bloody ask_ – “are you any good at cooking?” _Wow Joe, just… wow_. He hung his head, inner Booker was right to be ashamed.

_“Cooking?”_

“Yes, I, um – my sister and I always like to show off for our parents when we have family meals at our own places. And I figured-”

_“Italians can cook?”_

If Joe weren’t so ashamed of himself for being a scaredy-cat and racially profiling the man of his dreams, he’d be impressed with the speed of which he lied. “I’m stereotyping a bit aren’t I?”

_“Yes, but lucky for you I do fall into this particular assumption. Did you – do you want me to cook for you so you can say it’s yours or…?”_

“No, no,” Joe insisted. “I’d never make a priest lie-”

_“Ex-priest.”_

“-ex-priest. I thought perhaps you could teach me something? So, I can get one up on my sisters.”

Nicky hummed, the sound vibrating through the phone and down Joe’s spine. _“I suppose I can help you out. Is there anything, in particular, you want to make?”_

“Uh,” shit, the jig was nearly up. _Think Joe, think!_ “My family keep halal, so all that entails. It’s usually safer to go veggie if you’re worried about anything.”

_“Bene, bene. I’ll have a think and send you some options tomorrow?”_

“Sounds great!” _Too eager, Joe, tone it down._ “Tuesday at six?”

_“I’ll see you then.”_

“I’ll leave you to your Autumn watching, buonanotte Nicky.”

Nicky giggled, _“buonanotte Yusuf.”_

He fell back on the bed, the ringing of Nicky’s little laugh in his head. Not officially a date but definitely date-adjacent. Just the two of them, making food, talking, laughing – he’d ask properly then. Once they’d sent a bit of time together and Joe could figure the quiet man out a little more. Without interruption, without – shit.

“Booker, I need you to lie for me.”


End file.
